the rough and tumble of writing,
always the endeavor to be better,
always the laggard, hardly a braggart,
for you, pop up every anew, and
slapping me with your words,
striking me down with your perceptions
giving me sensations that irregulate
distorting my tremulating^ five senses,
with blows
from without, & stronger from within,
and i pass a thought on my way to
the next volcanic bursting of my chest,

this life of nothing, but reading poetry,
will most definitely **** me sooner,
for the laggard is always the last,
and there is always the inevitable next,
and when my family tells me,
get a life, i smile, for I have already
through 'but poetry,"
lived a thousand lifetimes,
a millennium of emotions,
by
your words,
whose words?

y o u r
    words

                                                    ­                                             nml